


Sweet Tooth

by halo21



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drug Addiction, F/M, Unhealthy Relationships, spooky kids era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "I will break you inside out, you are mine, you are mine."-In which two addicts meet and fall into all-consuming, unfortunate love.
Relationships: Marilyn Manson/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia Russo has no future. 
> 
> For generations, her family has produced unremarkable, addiction-prone children who are destined for mediocrity. At nineteen, she doesn't think that she'll be any different. 
> 
> It isn't until a late-night drug run leads her to Brian that she allows herself to think differently. 
> 
> Though he seems to be just as much of a burnout as Julia is on the surface, Brian makes it easy for her to imagine an escape, — be it through drugs, music, or the possibility of fame. 
> 
> But fairytales are nowhere near real, and Brian could just as easily pull Julia under as he could get her out. 
> 
> Either way, Julia's not sure she wants him to let her go.

Let me tell you something.

If you're looking for hope, just get the hell on out of here.

This isn't the story that you're looking for. It's not a story about getting lost and having somebody else find you. It's not one of those convoluted tales where the guy and the girl save each other, — like such a thing would even be possible.

It's one of those stories where two people who circumstance should never have even brought together find themselves inevitably drawn to one another.

It's a story where the guy and the girl do find each other, and, for that very reason, things get fucked up so much worse.

There's your warning. It isn't pretty, but it's the truth; how things were for he and I.

And if he won't tell you the truth, — which he won't, because that's something he's long since forgotten how to do, — I will.

No fairytales, no sugar coats, no happy endings.

That's how stories should be told.

It's the way life works, after all.

Sometimes, somebody just has to teach you how to stop holding out hope.

That's what he did for me.

I feel ashamed saying it, but there was always something in those early days — a feeling that grew like poison ivy within me, spreading more and more as the days went on. It planted stupid little thoughts in my mind, created a world in which we might be alright.

As he passed a pill from his tongue to mine, I'd find myself dreaming of the apartment we might rent together, pondering if we'd be cliched enough to get a cat or if he'd want something more sinister, — a snake, maybe, like he'd said he had when he was little.

When we were high out of our minds not long afterwards, I took note of his arms around me, felt his heartbeat beneath my cheek, and imagined that there was something important there.

I felt the girl that I was before him dissolve as I traced his tattoos with my fingertips, trying to memorise his very being right then, — though I knew that would be much easier later, when he turned off the TV   
and we started taking each other's clothes off.

In those moments, when I was drowning in chemicals and him, I could make myself believe that the future I imagined as a kid wasn't one big pipedream. Happiness wasn't a myth, — it was something I could hold when I reached out for it in the night.

In my mind, happiness was a long-haired boy. He didn't quite look like the prince I had dreamed of as a kid, but that was okay, because he had so much to offer: candy, philosophy, laughter, sex, drugs.

At that point, I was too head-over-tits to realize that 'love' didn't come in anywhere on his end of the deal.

Believe me when I say, however, that I know now. I know better.

Never again will I allow myself to daydream about someone just because I share my body and bed with him. Never again will I trust someone to know exactly what I'm thinking. Never again will I let someone get close enough to try and lick my wounds, because I know that they'll just open up some more while they're at it.

So, yeah. I guess you can say I've learned my lesson about happy endings. Now I can share my jaded feelings with the whole wide world.

Thanks for giving me this one opportunity, Brian.

Thanks a lot. 


	2. One

March 1992

My connection knows when and where to meet me. Still, my nerves are eating me alive.

It's the dead of night, and the time of year for constant humidity has officially begun in South Florida.

Even when the sun has long since set, heat seems to rise from the asphalt beneath my boots, wrapping itself around my body as if it were trying to suffocate me.

The air outside the club is made of smog, sweat, and smoke, making it feel heavy and smell rancid.

Considering that it's the only thing available to me, I breathe it in through greedy gulps. Once I've found myself settling into a pattern steady enough to ensure that I'm unlikely to faint, I do my part to pollute it even more.

As I reach for the box of cigarettes in my purse, my fingers brush against the money that I'll use to pay the dealer, counted out down to the change before I left my place.

Part of me takes comfort in this carry-on, knowing that there's little to no chance of my getting jilted out of my money's worth or, on the other hand, having to get crafty as the dealer awaits his pay.

Some other part that I thought I buried is dismayed by the fact that I had been desperate enough to be so meticulous. The not-so-distant memory of searching in the couch cushions brings shame to the part of me that is still Freaky-Julia-from-School.

That part of me likens that not-so-fond memory to a twelve-year-old Julia engaging in a similar sort of scrounging, only she had been doing so in order to even out her lunch money after Mom had decided to blow all her spare cash on, well...

Yeah. 'Blow' was a fitting verb to use there.

I urge that nagging part of me to shut up as my fingers close around my cigs and lighter.

It would be clear to any same person that my identity as that Julia had died long ago if they saw me now, standing outside of some scuzzy Goth club with a lit cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

Within seven years, this was what I had ended up resorting to: spending the money that I had worked so hard to earn on the very same vice that my mother had, picking up dollars off the ground when I could, staying up into the small hours of the morning, eight days a week.

Well, I think as I blow smoke rings into the filthy air, at least I don't have any kids.

If there's one thing about this scene that I figure Little Julia would be proud of, it's the fact that my birth control pills are sitting right next to my drug money.

If there's anything I'm responsible about, it's avoiding bringing another Russo into the world.

I cringe at the thought, - of course, the kid would be cursed with my family name, because none of the losers that I regularly find myself in bed with would ever take responsibility for some druggie and her new parasite.

Then there would be that same old struggle, - finding money, and figuring out whether to spend it to feed my kid or my habits once I had it.

And then there would be the actual kid, - a girl, if I was lucky, because it would be a lot less painful to look at a youthful version of my own face than a carbon copy of-

Why the hell am I thinking about having babies right now?

Trying to pull myself out of this destructive pattern of thought, I throw my cigarette onto the ground, stomp on it hard.

I must be really close to losing my head.

With that thought in mind, I take a look around the back of the club again, hoping that my man of the evening will arrive sometime soon.

That's when I notice the shadow at the back exit.

At first, I believe that it's him; the thought has me brightening up in no time, hands itching to reach into my purse, trade my meager money for a full baggie.

I realize that this likely isn't the case when the tall figure makes no move to approach me. The person just stands there, watching like some sort of guard dog, - though, judging by the willowy thin form that their shadow casts, I doubt that they'd be entrusted to physically protect anything.

Once again, my mood shifts from relief to anxiety.

Sure as the world, this unidentified person took a look at me and knew what I was up to.

Perhaps I've finally found myself face-to-face with an undercover cop, - although a sting does seem sort of laughable in such an obscure area on a Wednesday night.

Maybe this unseen person's motivations are just as illegal as my own, - only that could mean that they had certain heinous intentions involving me, the thought of which sets my heartbeat into overdrive.

Briefly, I consider fleeing, but ultimately decide that I can't stand John up like that. So I remain stationary, crossing my arms over my chest and straightening my spine, - a defensive stance.

I make a mental note to buy some mace if I have a bit of spare cash after this.

As I mull this particular idea over, lights cut through the dark of this back alley. The headlights of John's black coupe illuminate my surroundings. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the mystery person move out of the shadows.

I don't have much time to consider this when John swings open his door, beginning to approach me on foot.

The closer he gets, the more a certain part of my brain reacts.

My senses go haywire, a miniature, preemptive high. Suddenly, I couldn't care less about anything around me, - hell, some supreme being could strike me down tonight, and I wouldn't even care, as long as I got my fix first.

When John is right in front of me, he's suddenly the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

I smile a smile that I've reserved for him exclusively, - a genuine reaction to a sensation that I am sure isn't love, but might be damn close to it.

"Hi, John," I greet him, my voice soft, high, overflowing with feminine charm. This affirms just what a hell of an actress I am, considering the fact that my usual tone is that of the insomniac chain-smoker that I find myself to be in actuality.

"Quiet," John replies gruffly. Clearly, he doesn't appreciate my sweetness. "Hurry it up, Russo. I've got other places to be."

"Fine."

I don't think before I spit this venom-laced word at him, but I sure as hell think about it afterwards.

Suddenly, I'm cowering all over again, - John could absolutely have me killed at a moment's notice. I figure that's in his job description.

Shaking like a leaf, I pull back the zipper on my purse, scramble for the money inside. As I work to do this, my ears vaguely register the sound of what could be footsteps behind me.

Finally, I emerge with the money, down to the very last cent.

"There," I say, slightly breathless as I push my payment into the sweaty palm of John's hand.

John's hardass expression never eases as he counts through the cash. Soon enough, he's casting his eyes up again, his glare falling on me.

"Do you still want the amount we agreed on?" he asks.

I swallow. "Yes sir," I reply. "Did I not-"

"No, Julia," he answers, pronouncing my name in a manner that makes me cringe. "It isn't enough. You know I don't cut people deals..."

Oh, God. I'm doomed.

Trembling growing worse, I attempt to look him in the eye plaintively. "John, I-"

"Shut up, you bitch!"

The insult cuts through me like a knife. Though I know it's wholly unjust, I immediately feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, threatening to escape.

Bitch. That's always what I end up being reduced to, at the end of the day.

"John, I'm sorry," I manage. "What can I do-"

"Hey."

The word is delivered so casually, I'm sure I've begun hearing things.

When I turn around, however, there's a real live man standing next to me.

The only thing I can really make out about him through the dark is just how tall he is, - he stands a good head taller than me, and I'm not exactly the shortest girl in Fort Lauderdale.

Quickly, it dawns on me: he was the one watching me from the exit.

Who the hell is he saying 'hey' to?

Much to my surprise, John answers my unspoken question.

"Warner," he says, the malice that had just been directed at me bleeding over. "Didn't anybody ever teach you how to wait your turn?"

Just as soon as he had switched his disdainful eyes to this interloper, he directs them back at me.

"Don't waste my time, Russo," he says. "I don't do loans. So it's either you cough something up now, or you get the hell out of here. Even if you leave, you'll need to remember something: I do not enjoy getting dicked around by people who think that they're smarter than me."

The lump in my throat feels to be the size of a fist. "John, I'll do-"

"Take it easy, John." The tall stranger's voice booms over mine, calm as can be. "She's with me."

John gives the guy another disapproving look. "Jesus Christ, Warner. You know I wasn't born yesterday-"

"I'm serious," the guy continues, - and by God, does he sound serious. "Full price for me, and I'll make up the difference for my girl."

Even through the pitch black of midnight, I'm able to catch the glint in his eye, - a secret deal, silently exchanged between the two of us. My heart skips a beat. 

He's totally saving my ass.

Though it saves him the trouble of a possible murder, John still seems dismayed. "You have got to be shitting me..." he mumbles.

My white knight and I stay silent, refusing to retract our pending deal.

After a while of stalled silence, my savior digs in his pocket, coming up with what seems to be quite the decent amount of cash. Lucky.

"Will this do it?"

John snatches the money from his hand, flips through it quickly.

Finally, he grunts. "Guess so," he says. "Just... Warn me next time."

And then, the glorious moment comes where he heads back to his car, returning with two plastic bags.

Wordlessly, he shoves the first one into the guy's hand, then the second into mine.

"Better keep him around, Russo," he hisses at me. "That was your first strike."

Before either of us can reply, he makes an about-face, heading back for his car. Within seconds he gets back in his vehicle, starts his engine, and tears out of the ally. Soon, it's easy to believe that he was never there at all.

For a minute or so, the mystery guy and I stand in silence.

I try to calm the shaking in my hands, hoping that I'll be able to hush the voice in the back of my mind that plays John's last few words over and over again like a broken record.

First strike, it says. You'll only get three, and that's if he's merciful.

"You okay?"

The mystery man's voice, deep and honeyed, cuts through the deathly quiet.

I clear my throat before speaking.

"Yeah. I mean, I think so..." I pause, a new question popping into my mind. "Can I see your face?"

He chuckles lowly. "I mean, I guess you could..." he says. "You might be disappointed, but..."

"Trust me," I say, "after what you just pulled, I definitely won't."

It doesn't matter what he looks like. I'd gladly drop to my knees for him if he so much as snaps his fingers.

I hear the sound of his boots against the gravel as he approaches me. The footfalls stop as he backs into the light.

I stop, look him up and down.

He's definitely tall, – well over six feet, I'd wager. His hair is longer than mine, as black as the sky hanging over us. His eyes meet mine, – one light, one dark, – as a silver ring shines devilishly at the corner of his upturned lips.

I've definitely seen worse.

I find the nerve to speak again. "What do I need to do?" I ask. "To repay you, I mean."

His smile broadens. "Nothing at all," he says, "except maybe come back inside with me."

"Deal," I say. "I'm Julia, by the way. Sorry about–"

"No apologies." He stops, holding a hand out to me. "It's a pleasure, Julia. I'm Brian."


	3. two

Inside the club, Brian and I find ourselves a cramped corner where no one will bother investigating what we're up to. Not that I'm too worried about anybody here ratting on us, — everywhere I look, there's another poster child for the burnout stereotype. 

Assuming that these are reasonably well-adjusted folks with the ability to sleep (unlike myself,) none of them have any business being here and wide open on a weeknight. And yet, the place is packed to the rafters.

One would have to be blind to assume that we were the only ones partaking of nefarious things here. In fact, I'd wager that everyone in the room has some sort of dirt they're trying to cover up. 

Actually, from the looks of it, they're not trying that hard. 

The dancefloor is populated by couples, this close to publically copulating. A few key characters walk in and out of the bathroom at suspiciously frequent intervals. A few feet away from where we sit down, a pair of guys that look like something between Hell's Angels and big-time stoners smoke joints and excitedly discuss the poster behind them, stating that White Zombie will supposedly be here next weekend. 

Everything is blurred at the edges by constant movement and noise. No one could possibly see us too well through the throngs of people surrounding us, and no one can hear us over the sudden boom of Ministry's "Stigmata" over the speakers. 

For that reason, it seems that Brian decides we're safe. 

Nonchalantly, as if he were placing down something as inconspicuous as a plate of French fries, he takes out his baggie. Quickly, he pulls a brown napkin from a dispenser on the table and shakes a small amount of the cut white substance onto it. He stops to look appraisingly at the powder for a while before stopping to rummage in his pockets again, coming up with yet another crisp dollar bill. 

With the grace of an old pro, he rolls the dollar up into a thin cylinder before leaning over the napkin and taking a deep breath in.

Just like that, he's done. 

He sniffs, rubbing his nose as he straightens his spine once again. He grins at me, a lock of raven hair falling into his face as he crumples up the napkin. "Your turn." 

I nod before reaching into my purse. With shaking hands, I take out my own baggie, find the dollar that I keep separate from the rest of my pocket money for this exact purpose, and pull a napkin from the dispenser. In a haste that is the result of both anticipation and anxiety, I attempt to empty the optimal amount onto the slip of paper in front of me. 

"Hey, careful." I freeze as one of Brian's hands suddenly closes around my wrist. When I look up to meet his eyes, he smiles again, letting go of me. "You went through so much trouble to get it. Don't waste any." 

Once again, I nod, then begin to mentally chastise myself for not talking to him like any normal person would. 

He probably thinks that there's something terribly wrong with me, with the way that I'm acting. 

As I roll my dollar up and look down at the coke, I figure that I'll probably feel like talking soon enough.

That thought in mind, I dive right in. As per my companion's advice, I'm sure not to let a bit go to waste. Soon, it seems any trace of powder on the napkin was never there at all.

I sit back up, smiling genuinely for the first time this evening. Though my heart is racing faster now than it was when John was vaguely threatening me outside, I feel exponentially calmer. As the chemicals that could just as soon kill me enter my bloodstream, I feel so very alive, almost at peace. 

The faulty sensor that I'm beginning to know well goes off in my brain, telling me that this is all I need to feel whole.

The last bit of the younger, more innocent Julia yells from the back of my mind, denying this vehemently. 

Hoping that the war inside my brain will silence sometime soon, I attempt to flash Brian the same winning smile I gave John earlier. "See? I don't waste things."

He chuckles. "I'll say. Looks like you're an expert."

Though it's one of the most fucked up compliments possible, I feel my cheeks start to burn. 

He seems genuinely impressed. 

"Dude!" 

My smile fades as I scramble to hide the remainder of my stash away, tucking my dollar back into its hiding place as somebody approaches our table. 

Before I can even completely make sense of what's going on, I find myself face-to-face with three rather odd-looking individuals, all of whom seem to lay their expectant eyes on me at once.

All I can do is stare back, wide-eyed (and likely wide-pupiled,) as a guy with a goatee and shaved head hones in on me before turning back to Brian. 

"Shit, man," he curses. "I thought we were the only free-loaders that you keep around." 

Brian rolls his eyes. "Relax, Pogo," he says. "There's plenty for you. I just happened to help the lady cut a deal." 

"'Cutting a deal?' That's what they're calling it now?" the guy with wild multicolored hair chimes in. "What did she give you in return?"

All at once, the group bursts into a fit of obnoxious laughter as I look on, seeming to forget how to speak once more. Even in my altered, reasonably-happier state, I find myself to be the deer in the headlights. 

Meanwhile, Brian laughs, unfazed. "Julia here hasn't given me anything, — yet." He casts a pointed glance my way. "We'll have to see if she's interested after the coke kicks in." 

If I had been blushing before, my face is on fire now. I cast my gaze down towards my lap.

Why is it that I always seem to attract such obnoxious men?

"Better hope if she does give you something, it's something you can get rid of, if you don't want it," pipes up the chubby black-haired guy, the only one who hadn't suggested anything at my expense thus far. "Wouldn't do for you to contract herpes or something. Unless you already have..."

"Do you want a line or not?" Brian snaps, interrupting him. 

Though the question seems to be directed at the guy who cracked wise about herpes, Pogo responds first. "Oh, hell yeah."

Within no time at all, the three guys are crowding around the already cramped table. It seems to me that I have been forgotten as Brian carries on with them, maintaining a steady back-and-forth as he carefully measures out the powder. 

"The Wheel didn't want to come?" he asks. 

"Nah," Pogo replies. "Says his leg's acting up again."

The rainbow-haired guy chuckles. "Good riddance," he says. "He's never much fun, anyway. Probably gets his kicks from the pain meds he's on."

"Come on, now, Brad," Brian says, drawing the other man's name out as if he were a disappointed father. "We can't all be druggies like you."

Brad only lifts his middle finger in response. 

The four of them chatter excitedly until their impatience gets the better of them. Soon, the three white lines that Brian had arranged before the, are gone. Rather soon after that, Pogo, Brad, and Scott, as Brian had called the final guy, have found convenient excuses to disperse. 

At this point, Brian turns to look at me, deciding it would be convenient to acknowledge my existence again. 

He huffs out something that sort of sounds like a laugh, though there's something in his facial expression suggesting that he isn't truly amused. 

"See how quickly my friends come and go?" he asks, dilated eyes meeting mine. "They don't even try to hide what they're really here for." He sits with his arms crossed in front of him, looking like a pouting child. 

"Oh, you poor thing," I tease him, poking my bottom lip out. "Are your friends using you for drugs?"

This time, he doesn't even offer me a pretend-laugh, shooting me a curious look. "Like you have any room to talk," he says. "You were only really interested in hanging around because I did you a favor. As soon as you leave this place, I doubt you'll ever think about me again."

"That isn't true." I drop my smartass act, giving him a genuine smile. "Do you think I'd forget someone who did something so very valiant for me?" 

He seems to lighten up at that, eyes flashing. "Valiant," he says. "I don't think anybody else has ever used that word to describe me before."

"Well, that's what you were!" I reply quickly. "If you hadn't shown up, John might've slit my throat right then."

"He might have, but he didn't." He keeps his arms crossed, staring me down as if he's challenging me in some way.

Clearly, he doesn't know me very well yet. 

I'm good at challenges. 

My whole life thus far has been one big puzzle that I've been tasked I'm arranging the pieces to, though everyone around me had managed to jumble them up so that I didn't even know what to look for in the end product. 

Still, I've managed to piece together a good portion of it. 

At least the 'getting by' and 'getting high' parts.

"And that's the very reason you're sitting in front of me right now," he continues in a surprisingly hushed tone. "Because you feel indebted." He stares me down as if he's trying to look right through me, sending some combination of thrill and discomfort through me.

"Is this how it goes for you with all the boys, Julia? They do you favors, you pay them back with your company?"

I stare right back at him. "Are you calling me a whore, Brian?" I shoot back. "Because if you want my company in that way tonight, you'll have to front me a bit more money."

He laughs. "I don't know if you just shot me down or proved my point."

"Maybe it was a little bit of both."

In the end, it seems that I've passed his test, because his expression soon softens. He leans closer to me, propping his arms up on the table. "All I'm trying to say," he says in a hushed tone, "is it would be nice to have some genuine company every once in a while." 

As soon as those words leave his lips, the lump in my throat returns.

Now, there's a statement that I can definitely relate to.

I swallow the rising lump down, working to find my words. "Well," I manage, "I guess I'll just have to be honest with you, then." 

I lean back in my chair, maintaining eye contact. Brian gazes at me, head tilted slightly like a curious puppy.

"Go ahead," I encourage him. "Ask me something."

"Anything?" he asks.

"Anything," I confirm. "You don't have to be tasteful."

"Okay then." He grins mischievously. "What do you do for a living?"

Oh. 

So he does think I'm a whore. 

"I'm a waitress." I cast him a pointed look before he can say anything else. "And yes, that is all. Now, you go."

He's quiet for a moment, really seeming to consider it. Finally, he seems to come up with what he deems to be an appropriately soul-searching question.

"Are you a cat or a dog person?"

"Cat," I respond without even having to think. "Dogs are bullshitters, — they'll forgive you of anything. Plus, you have to do so much to keep them happy, — take them on walks, force them into the bath, listen to them beg while you eat. Cats, on the other hand, will let you know when you fucked up. They aren't enablers, and they're so self-sufficient. They clean themselves, shit in a litterbox, catch and kill their own food if they have to... well, I think it's pretty clear what my bias is." I giggle. "What about you?"

"Well, I had this really great dog when I was a kid..." he starts. "An Alaskan Malamute. She was huge, she looked like a wolf, and she'd do anything I said. She ended up dying an untimely death, and no dog I've been around since has ever been able to measure up to the standards she set. So... Cats, I guess. Although snakes are even cooler. Feed 'em live food..." 

"Lovely," I interrupt him. "See, there's another thing to like about you: you're an upstanding guy with a soft spot for all animals..."

"Says the girl who probably enjoys a nice plate of bacon every now and again." 

I roll my eyes. "Okay, Morrissey."

"Ah!" He points at me. "So there's another tidbit. You like The Smiths?"

"Some of their stuff," I shrug. "They've got one hell of am egotistical frontman, though."

He pauses, giving me that searching look again. "You don't like ego?" 

"Depends," I respond. "Sometimes, it can be sexy. Others, it's a detriment." 

"Well, then," he says. His lip ring catches a neon light as he gives me a rather self-assured smile. "Guess you'll have to be the judge of mine when you see it." 

He stands up, holding a hand out to me in an invitation. "Care to go get a drink? I'm buying." 

Careful, Brian, I think. I'm not that easy a conquest.

I wrinkle my nose at him. "I thought you didn't like free-loaders?"

"If the free-loaders look like you, I think I'm willing to make an exception."

I know it's an easy line, — it doesn't mean anything.

So why am I idiot enough to stand up and take his hand?

🖤

We spend most of the rest of the night talking and drinking. Each of us dip back into our stashes once again as an intermission between our discussions of music (he likes the campy stuff, KISS and Alice Cooper; my preferences lean more towards post-punk of the British variety,) religion (we both agree: it's a sham,) and literature (when I attempt to impress him by naming some of the more difficult books I read in high school, he mentions that he's fond of Dr. Seuss and Roald Dahl.) 

Though I told him earlier that I wouldn't get in bed with him tonight unless he paid me, as the evening goes on, I feel my inhibitions begin to wear away. 

This is when I realize that he's dangerous, - the more he talks and the more I drink, the more appealing he is. 

I find myself studying his hair, — it looks soft, my intoxicated mind pipes up. As his lips move, I find myself transfixed by that lip ring. I don't know what it is about it that's so novel to me, - surely, I've messed around with a guy with a lip piercing before. If I have, however, it apparently didn't leave much of an impression, because I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my tongue over the metal. 

Then I take note of the tattoo sleeve running down his arm, wondering if I'd be able to tell if they were if I just got a little closer. 

As time ticks on, our follow clubgoers begin to file out. It seems to me that very few of them are leaving alone, — even the most obvious losers seem to have somebody. The sight of these greasy lowlifes leaving with their own companions causes jealousy to well up within me, and I know what's going to happen next.

Well, Julia, looks like you've found yourself another one night stand.

After our third round of drinks, I woman up enough to make my proposal. 

"Sooooo..." I giggle, swirling my straw around in my drink. "I have another question for you."

His multicolored eyes fall on me. His smug expression says that he already knows what I'm looking for. "And what would that be?"

I lean towards him. Soon, my chin is resting on his shoulder. A lock of his hair tickles the side of my face as I whisper in his ear. "Do you have anybody waiting at home for you who would be upset if I tagged along?"

He pulls away, seemingly taken aback. 

For a moment, my heart sinks, but when I look at his face afterwards, I don't see anything remotely close to disgust. In fact, I'd wager it's something resembling the opposite, considering how his eyes drop towards the neckline of my shirt. 

"I, um..." He shifts in his seat, licks his lips. 

Is he nervous?

Finally, he seems to muster up enough nerve to look me in the eye again. "Are you gonna try to charge me?"

Quickly, I shake my head.

"Noooo..." I laugh again. "I changed my mind... 'cause I like you a lot." 

I find myself leaning into him again, — whether this is a result of my intoxication or some autopilot first step towards seduction, I can't be sure.

Whatever the case, I found myself pretend-pouting again as I lean into his chest. "I don't wanna go home alone, Brian."

It's only after the slurred words have left my lips that I realize that maybe the self-pity in my voice isn't put on, and that maybe I really mean the sentiment behind the statement in a way that entails something more than sex. 

Of course, I don't have time to think about this, — because Brian is a man, and probably not nearly as fucked up as I am, and he is definitely thinking about it in terms of sex. 

"Dammit, Julia," he mutters. "Just... hold on a second." 

I force myself to sit up, watching with heavy eyes in anticipation of his next move. 

He could shut me down right now. He could look me in the eye, tell me that I'm nothing but a cheap, junkie bitch, and leave me here on this barstool, never to cross paths with him again. 

Instead, he waves down the bartender. "Uh, yeah... I'd like the check, please."

🖤

His apartment is small and shitty, but it's better than the trailer that I could be taking him back to. Besides, I don't have much time to take a look around as he jams the key into the door and blindly turns the lock.

We practically fall over the threshold, lips pressed against each other's. Once he kicks the door shut, I find myself pressed against the wall.

I pull back. "Jesus," I gasp. "You can't even... wait 'til we get out of the hall?" 

"I don't wait, Julia."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" 

"Well... I took you home without buying you dinner first." 

Before I can say anything else, his mouth is on mine again. 

God, the man kisses like he means it. 

While I have the opportunity, I pull his lip ring between my teeth, tugging slightly. When he lets out a slight noise of surprise, I pull back. 

"Well, Brian," I say, "you're going to at least have to wait until you can bring me to bed..." I stop, pressing a kiss against his neck. "...because I do not do it up against the wall on the first date." 

He laughs. "Well, then... maybe next time."

Though it's absolutely idiotic, my heart leaps at the idea of a 'next time.'

Stop that, the logical part of me thinks. You don't know him. Plus, he's drunk. As soon as tomorrow rolls around, he'll throw you out without a second thought.

And then I'm telling the logical part of me to shut up as he grabs my hand, pulling me towards some doorway at the end of the hall. 

He doesn't bothering turning on the lights, and I'm glad, — I always prefer it this way, as impersonal as possible. 

In fact, it appears that he has the most wonderful virtue possible on the list of Julia Russo's Optimal Qualities for One Night Stands: urgency.

Before I can think myself into a hole of regret, he's got me pressed into the mattress, kissing me again. He's pulling articles of clothing off of me faster than I can even tell what they are. Meanwhile, it takes all the willpower in the world for me to even get his shirt off with my shaking hands. 

Things happen quickly; it's all a blur of his hands and mouth. I keep my eyes closed the whole time; I know that even if I did open them, I wouldn't see anything. 

For the moment, I just try to get lost. 

I remind myself that this means that, even if it's just for now, I'm wanted by somebody, and I'm not alone. 

For someone who has only felt truly wanted by one other person before, this is a better feeling than anything physical. 

I know that this goofy, coked out, Gothed up stranger doesn't love me. 

But if I'm in his bed, I'm not by myself. 

While I'm this high, that's more than enough. 

🖤

When I'm not trying to remember, the moments all seem to bleed together. 

Soon enough, the main event is over. 

I lay on the colder side of the bed, a sheet thrown over my body. Though it seemed my heart was just about to beat out of my chest just minutes ago, I am suddenly too tired to keep my eyes open. 

I could be in anyone's bed. This could be any day of any month in any year.

The only thing I know for sure is that I'm still Julia Russo: mistake, druggie, failure. Much to my dismay, the numbness starts to melt away, — all the pain and loathing rushes back towards me, threatening to leave ,e broken down all over again. 

And then, through the dark, I hear a halfway-familiar voice whisper to me. 

"Goodnight, Jules." 


	4. three

By the time I open my eyes, the sun is already completely up. 

It shines through the curtains, causing me to squint. 

Shit, I think as I sit up, taking a look around the room. Black curtains. How long have I been out?

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stretch, noting the faint ache in all of my joints. I'm not sure if this is the result of pure exhaustion or whatever the hell Brian and I did last night. 

I don't even remember any details about that, so I assume it was par for the course, - well, except for maybe two things. 

First, he said he'd like to do it against the wall next time. It's not the against the wall part that gets me, - I mean, looking at him, I assume that the man can surely get a lot kinkier than that, - but the next time. 

Surely, he's not completely oblivious. We seemed to be on the same wavelength last night, what with all the drugs and the drinking. All we really know about each other is that we're both coke fiends and cat people, - there's no way he thinks that I'm his girlfriend now, right? 

The second thing is that, afterwards, when I was really falling asleep for the first time in what seemed like weeks, he told me goodnight. 

My heart kicks back into overdrive as I remember that last moment before I drifted off completely. 

Goodnight, Jules. 

Jules?

A nickname? Dammit, - if I think about any of this any more, I'll start panicking. 

I stand up, hoping to shake this whole thing off. 

Donna's probably already expecting me at the diner, - the breakfast rush might even be over by now.

Luckily for me, I don't have to worry about my boss firing me, - probably just starting a search party for my body. 

She might not be too far off, one of these days. 

When I rise to my feet and begin my search for my clothes, I turn around, only to meet the eyes of Gene Simmons. 

I freeze for a moment. 

Good God. The entire lineup of KISS watched us do the deed.

Slowly, I turn around, only to find posters lining nearly every square inch of the walls. 

Bands. Horror movies. Leather-clad women. Polaroids that I wouldn't be able to make out unless I got closer to them.

How old is he? Fifteen?

Bemused, I ponder taking a walk through the place after I pull on my dirty tank top and blue jeans, but ultimately decide against it when I find that he still happens to be lying in bed, asleep. 

Though it feels extremely creepy and somewhat voyeuristic, I stay in place for a while. He breathes steadily, chest rising and falling. One of his arms hangs off the bed, - the one with the tattoo of what seems to be a pentagram. 

He looks... peaceful.

Is this how I looked to him when I was asleep?

The alarm bells start ringing in my head. I jerk my gaze away quickly, as if I were once again witnessing the collision that killed my brother. 

Can't you see what's happening? shouts that voice, - the one that seems to be hell-bent on both my survival and my self-destruction. Stick around here any longer, and you're going to get attached. 

That thought in mind, I turn around, walking back through the hallway that he had kissed me in the night before, in search of a bathroom. 

As I walk, I promise myself that there won't be a next time. 

🖤

Knowing that I can't show up to work in my current state, I catch the bus and head back to my trailer to make myself presentable. 

After taking the key from beneath the mat, I head inside, change my clothes, brush my hair and teeth. 

On the way back out, I check the time. 

9:30. 

Not nearly as bad as it could have been. 

Still, I don't bother digging in my cabinets for food before walking back towards the Greyhound station. I think I've pushed my luck enough within the past twenty four hours. 

As I expected, Donna seems to be anxiously awaiting my arrival.

She whips her head towards me as soon as I walk through the door. A stern, motherly expression appears on her face as she parts her red-painted lips to scold me. 

"Julia," she says, "where on Earth have you been, girl? You had me worried sick!" 

I smile as I step behind the bar, brushing past her. "Sorry, Don. I slept in a bit this morning." 

"I certainly hope you rested well, then." She turns back around to watch me as I reach for my apron, hanging on the rack next to the kitchen's entrance. 

Though I try my best to ignore her eyes on my back, I feel them tracking my every move. 

Her concern is palpable. 

That makes me feel guilty. 

Donna Alvarez is older than my actual mother, though she certainly looks much healthier.  
She's short and plump, with shiny black hair that she constantly keeps immaculately pinned back at her neck. She posseses all the gentleness and patience that could fit into a dozen women, and, if she likes you enough, it's easy to make her laugh.

Though she has three biological grown children to worry about, she has spent every day since I applied to work at the diner worrying about me. 

This is exactly what she's doing as I tie my apron around my waist. 

She sighs. "It seems like you get skinnier every time I see you," she says. "Do you forget to eat?" 

Though I know the exact reason why my appetite is so low these days, I brush it off with a sheepish grin. 

"Come on, Donna," I say. "You know that I'm a busy woman."

She snorts. "Well, I bet you're not too busy for this." 

She motions towards a miniature pie sitting on the bar, which is empty save for a single businessman, nursing a cup of coffee. 

My mouth begins to water at the sight of the pie alone. It occurs to me that I didn't eat anything yesterday. 

Donna watches me, eyes sparkling with pride as I stare at the golden crust. "Go on," she urges. "It's cherry. Your favorite." 

"You don't have to tell me twice." 

I walk around the bar, seating myself at one of the stools and grabbing the set of silverware placed next to the pie. Greedily, I dig the in, coming away with a forkful of warm cherry filling. 

I moan as I shove the confection into my mouth. "God, Don," I say. "That is freaking good."

"You know I wouldn't do that for anyone else." I watch as she opens the dish cupboard and selects a mug. She places it front of me before beginning to pour me a cup of hot coffee. "I didn't even offer when Audrey had that nasty breakup last summer, and that girl was a wreck." 

"Oh, I remember." I swallow my forkful of fruit before grabbing three packets of sugar off the counter. I rip open the first one and dump it into my coffee. 

Donna is still watching me like a hawk. I somehow doubt that she's just examining my reaction to the pie. 

"You know that I love you, don't you?" she finally asks. 

My heart aches in response to this question. I keep my focus on my coffee, lest I look up and allow her to see the guilt in my eyes. "Of course. Love you, too."

She pauses. For one panicked moment, I think she's got me figured out, - why I'm so thin, why I complain about an erratic sleep schedule, why I haven't bought a car or moved out of the trailer park, even after she raised my pay a good bit.

"I was expecting you to come in to work hungover this morning," she blurts out. 

Relieved, I give her a slight smile as I look up. "You know what, Don?" I ask quietly. "I kind of am."

At that, Donna bursts into a quiet burst of giggles. "I knew it!" she exclaims. The way she slaps her palm against the bar causes the businessman to look over the edge of his newspaper. "Motherly intuition, I guess."

"Yeah. The pie's helping me feel sort of alive, but I've got one hell of a headache, so..." 

Oh, look at us this morning, telling the truth a little bit. 

Kindly shut the fuck up, smartass brain. 

I reach into my lap in an attempt to locate my purse, hoping to find the bottle of ibuprofen that I keep on me. All that I feel, however, is the fabric of my apron. 

I tell myself not to panic; it's probably under my feet. When I look down, however, I don't see it there, either. 

That's when I give myself the permission to begin losing it.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, this is bad. 

"Donna?" I force my composure for just a while longer. It wouldn't do to lose it in front of my boss and the few customers in the building. "Is my purse behind the bar, by any chance?"

Donna walks around, looking over the general area. "Mmm... No, doesn't look like it," she says. "Maybe you forgot to bring it in?" 

To her, this is a simple suggestion that will put no damper on her morning or life in general. To me, it's damn near the end of the world. 

"Oh, no." I stand up, leaving my pie half-eaten and my coffee half-drank. 

My stash. My fucking stash is God-knows-where. 

"Donna, I'm gonna have to leave work."

"Why?" Donna frowns. "Julia, honey, if you need ibuprofen, you know I have some in the back-" 

"Thanks, but no. If you must know, I've got my period, and nothing you might have in the back is gonna fix that." I turn towards the paper-reading man, who suddenly looks wholly uninterested in the remainder of his breakfast. "Sorry." 

I turn back to Donna, - who, perhaps for the first time in the year and a half that I'm known her, looks genuinely pissed. When I open my mouth to speak, I am not apologetic in the slightest. "Audrey should probably be here in just a bit. She can do whatever I was supposed to."

"Julia." The way she says my name is laced with hostility. "It is a school day in March..."

At this point, I'm already frantically untying my apron, throwing it back towards the counter. 

"Sorry!" I shout again as I push open the door again, though I'm really far from it. 

My stash. 

I have to find my fucking stash. 

🖤

The first place I go back to is my trailer. I hope with every bit of me that it's there, as to save me the headache of figuring out its other possible whereabouts and worrying about what might be found inside it if someone were to pick it up. 

Alas, when I go inside and thoroughly check every room, it is nowhere to be found. 

"Shit!" 

At this point, I am quite literally pulling my hair, nearly pacing a hole into my living room floor. 

Then the phone rings.

I pause, listen to the receiver shake. Nobody even knows my home number, - unless it's Donna calling to fire me, I don't know what to expect.

Not knowing what awaits me on the other line, I reach over to pick it up. 

"Hello?" I gasp into the phone, sounding thoroughly distressed. 

"Is this the Julia Russo residence?"

When I swallow, my throat feels as if it's filled with cotton. "Yes, it is. What can I help you with?" I sit down on the floor so as not to faint if the guy on the other end says anything I fear that he will.

Fucked. I am so fucked.

"Look, I have your purse," he continues. "I made the mistake of looking inside, - I really wish I didn't."

My stomach sinks. 

Quick, Julia. Think. Get yourself out of this. 

Unfortunately, the only thing I really know how to do well is be pitiful.

"Please just let me come get it, wherever you are," I beg. "I won't cause you any trouble ever again, I promise. I'll stay far away from whatever building you found it in, - I'll leave town if you want me to. Just please, don't-"

Suddenly, I hear the sound of laughter on the other end. 

That's when I realize what's going really on. 

"Brian?" I ask. "Is that you?"

"Holy shit." He laughs until it sounds like he can't breathe. "You really know how to lay it on thick, don't you?" 

Anxiety turning into anger, I clench my fists. "You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," I say. "I left work because I didn't have my purse..."

"Yeah, well, nice of you to say goodbye before you left my place this morning..."

Though I know he won't see me, I shake my head. "Brian, I'm serious," I say. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I need my purse, like, now. I could be out of a job because of this."

My voice drops to a low volume before I say something that seems too shameful to even say in this quiet room. "I thought you were a cop."

"Suffice to say you don't have to worry about that," he replies quickly. "And don't worry about anything else, either, - I'm bringing your bag to you. I don't have anything better to do."

"That won't be necessary," I say quickly. "I'll just swing back by your place. I've already left work."

"If you insist, then that's the way we'll do it."

"Right."

He recites his address to me, - which is necessary, considering how much I noticed last night. Just as I'm about to put the phone down and head to the bus station, a thought causes me to stop. 

"Brian?" I ask.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you get my number?"

He's quiet for a moment, and I think I hear a faint jingle. "This little passport thing in your wallet," he says. "You've got everything written down on it, man. Way better than a driver's license."

I roll my eyes. "Fucking stalker," I say before hanging the phone back up.

🖤

When I arrive back at Brian's apartment, he's waiting outside, grinning like the Chesire cat as he holds my purse. 

He hands it to me proudly. "Everything's still in there," he reports. "Wallet, makeup, drugs. Hey, - you forgot to take your pill this morning, so you might wanna, considering-"

"Those pills don't work that way, you idiot." I lean over to kiss his cheek, - nothing but a polite gesture, really, considering how many types he'd saved my ass in the last few hours. "Thanks for holding onto it for me. You're a real pal."

"You're welcome," he replies. "If karma were a thing, I'd expect all this to come back to me someday."

I only grin at him wryly as I turn around to leave.

For some reason, a formal 'goodbye' doesn't seem appropriate.

🖤

When I catch the next bus, I instruct the driver to drop me off at the stop nearest to the diner to see if I still have a job. 

Once my route is settled, I find myself a seat in the back and check to make sure all of my belongings are still there. 

He's right, - my wallet, makeup, and drugs, amongst other things, are all still in place. I allow myself the luxury of a sigh of relief.

And then I notice a strange piece of paper lying beneath some errant plastic pill bottles. 

Frowning, I reach in to grab it.

Once I hold the paper up to the light, I realize exactly what it is: a phone number.

Hey, Julia,

If you're reading this, I thought you were fucking amazing last night and would absolutely love to see you again. Make next time be a bit nicer and tell me before you leave.

Yours truly, Brian

Though I roll my eyes, I tuck the paper back into my purse for later. Somehow, I'm not surprised.

Should've known I wouldn't be getting rid of him that easily.


	5. four

It's been two weeks since I had to reclaim my bag. Gratefully, these two weeks haven't been too traumatic.

For one thing, I still have my job. Lucky me.

Of course, Donna wasn't too thrilled with me when I walked back through the doors of the diner later that morning, but I'm beginning to believe that the woman would forgive me of anything short of murder. As long as I got back to work and didn't pull any similar stunts anytime soon, she said that we'd be good.

And so I've returned to the grind of waiting on customers and wiping down tables without incident, making sure to keep track of the whereabouts of my purse all the while.

For eight hours every day, I fake normalcy, forcing smiles and attentive nods as Audrey relays her school drama to me behind the closed doors of the kitchen, just before Donna shoves a piled-high tray into my arms and sends me over to table fifteen. I go through the motions, pretending that there isn't an itch demanding to be scratched lurking within me, demanding that I use my next bathroom break to indulge a bit.

I save the indulging for when I return to my shitty little trailer, where it's as easy to take off my Happy Normal Waitress Julia face as it is to take off my bra.

That is exactly what I'm planning on doing tonight.

As soon as the door is shut behind me, I turn on the TV and remove the baggie from my purse.

Some old movie drones in the background as I arrange a neat little line on the coffee table, my hands shaking with anticipation.

As I roll up that old dollar and hold it to my nose, I swear that I need that unreal rush more than I need the air that I breathe.

I do that one as fast as I can, knowing it's the first of many.

One deep breath in, and the world suddenly becomes more bearable.

I swear that that moment of euphoria almost makes me believe that every grueling second of drudgery that I just endured was well worth it.

Just for a second, I don't mind being Julia Russo, the perfect poster girl for druggie trailer trash. If this feeling is my reward, it's worth it just to be alive.

For a fleeting moment, I consider that the pain might have only been placed in my path to offer the reward of the relief, - in the off chance that the pipedream of some being calling the shots is real, that is.

These insights fade from my thoughts as the feeling of my high begins to wear away. A carnal need rises up to replace the feeling of freedom that came before it. It demands that I give it _more_ , insisting that that one little bit was nowhere near enough.

As difficult as it is, I opt to resist this urge.

The uninvited flash of my mother's face in my mind does enough to solidify that decision.

With a sigh, I flop back onto the thrift store couch. I watch the ceiling fan, feeling my heart race underneath my palm as my impaired mind wanders down another rabbit hole, this one much less pleasant than the last.

Against my own will, I find myself pondering the carnage of my life thus far, - specifically, why the circumstances of my upbringing resulted in my complete avoidance of driving cars, while simultaneously sparking my utter infatuation with drugs.

Huh. When I think about it, the whole thing really is ironic.

Interesting as it may be, it's not a pretty thought, let alone one that I wish to waste the rest of my high on.

Eager to chase away the phantoms of my past, I sit up. My eyes dart across the room quicker than my mind can register most of the objects around me as my heart continues pounding rapidly. I'm beginning to suspect that's less of an effect of the drugs and moreso a sign of panic creeping in.

Suddenly, I'm starving for a distraction, - a hunger that's even more powerful than my body's insistence on having more coke.

Unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to find my escape in the glow of the TV in the corner. I try to concentrate as my mind vaguely registers the dramatic plights of some beautiful couple, displayed in black and white. The quite elegant scene soon comes to an abrupt halt, intercut with some commercial telling me that if I or a loved one have experienced some calamity at the hands of one corporation or another, I might be entitled to compensation.

At that point, I give up on that.

From the looks of it, mindless escapism won't be an option. I'm at the stage of getting high by myself where my brain races and leaves me in the dust. In the end, I'm along for the ride as it informs me of everything that's wrong with the here and now.

Resigned, I lean back into the couch, prepared to surrender.

Unfortunately, my plans to succumb to my emotional traumas are interrupted by the sting of physical pain as my head collides with some solid object.

"Ow, - fuck!"

Tears begin to prick at my eyes as I sit up, cautiously rubbing at the back of my head. Though my eyes aren't too fond of bright light at the moment, I fumble for the lamp.

When the lights come on, I examine my hand, happy to see no signs of any blood. I pat the area again, pleased not to feel a knot. Even if I were concussed, it doesn't seem likely that I'll be trying to sleep within the next few hours, anyway.

Still, the pain is sharp enough to make me want to locate the culprit of my injury. I turn around, only for my eyes to land on the wooden side table next to the couch.

I chuckle despite myself. Of course, I would forget where I had placed my own furniture.

"Ah, Julia," I chastise myself, hearing my own voice travel around the otherwise-empty room. "You're such a fucking lush."

With that, I begin to ponder why I'm talking to myself, - not only is it absurd, it's pretty much useless.

If nothing else, it reinforces the fact that I'm just a loser. A loser who wastes her life away, making a series of impressively stupid choices, - waiting in sketchy alleys at nighttime for her dealer to show up, sleeping with strange men who pick up the extra bit of cash for her drugs, returning home from her decent day job of feeding happy families only to dive into her stash and see if she finally overdoses this time.

Good God. I am the very definition of a waste of a space.

Once again, I find myself glancing around the living room. I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for at this point, - maybe some proof that I'm worth something, though I doubt that I own anything that might illustrate this fact.

What I eventually find myself focusing on, however, is the phone.

Quickly, my racing mind switches off its spiel of self-hatred in favor of a few disjointed fragments of thought.

The phone.

The number in the bottom of my bag.

Brian.

I sit and think about it, holding deathly still despite my racing pulse. I gnaw at my lip hard enough to draw blood, considering it.

I've left him hanging for two weeks thus far, and it would probably be wise to keep him waiting forever. The last thing I want or need is to allow someone to get too attached to me, - especially not someone who already looks to be getting there after one drug-fueled rendezvous.

And yet...

Well...

The scary thing is that I'm kind of hung up on the thought of him being preoccupied with me.

Before the reasonable part of me can rear its ugly head again to tell me I'm being ridiculous, I find myself wondering if he sits by his phone and waits, thinking of me.

I wonder how many girls he's had in his bed since I was there. I wonder if he remembers more about the time that I spent in that bed than I do.

I wonder if the thought of me coming back to him excites him... gets him off, even.

I wonder if he really, truly _wants_ me.

The disgusting thing is that I hope he does.

 _That's nothing personal,_ I try assuring myself as I pick up the phone with one hand, reaching for my purse with the other. _You'd take attention from any man at this point, Julia. Hell, - you're fucking_ _starving_ _for_ _it._

I punch in the number with shaking hands before lifting the phone to my ear and waiting. Each ring next to my ear, tests my miniscule patience, seeming to last an eternity rather than half a second.

After several painstaking rings, I get my answer.

"Who the fuck is it?"

My already-racing heartbeat picks up at his voice, slow and deep, and fuck, I am _so_ far gone.

I clear my throat before responding. "Brian," I begin, my voice coming out cracked and all-too-faint. "It's me. Julia."

He's quiet for a moment, but when he speaks again, I can tell that he's grinning.

"Julia," he says. "I was hoping you'd call. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I chuckle, looking down at the coffee table as I feel my almost-numb face begin to flush. "Honestly? Cocaine."

Brian chuckles. "Ah. That's fair."

I blow out a sigh, hoping to get my rapid breathing back in check. "Yeah. I was just cutting a couple of lines after I got off of work, and that seemed pretty sad, so... I thought of you."

"I see," he replies. "One night together, and cocaine already sets off some sort of Pavlovian response in you. Pretty damn impressive."

Pavlovian.

The image of a pack of salivating dogs pops into my head, seeming quite apt for my likely quite pitiful state as I attempt to come up with a response.

"Yeah. I'd say so." I shift against the sunken-in couch cushion, nervously crossing one leg over the other. Thank God he can't see me. "Plus, there's the loneliness factor..."

"Oh. You're lonely, huh?" he asks. "Want me to come on over and keep you company?"

Oh, Jesus. At this point, my face feels like it's about to burst into a million flames.

"No. I'm not that desperate yet," I force out. "I just kinda wanted somebody to talk to, you know? And you just sort of... came to mind."

"I see." His words come out slow, like he's really trying to focus on what I have to say. "I was just next on your list of boy toys, right?"

I groan. "Jesus, Brian," I say. "Why do you insist on making me out to be a slut?"

"Hey, hey, — I'm kidding." He laughs again, — I don't know if that sound should set me at ease or put me on edge. All I know is that it makes my insides go warm. "One thing you've gotta know about me, Jules, — I'm a fucking asshole."

"Yeah. I kinda gathered."

The fact that he's laughing leaves me giggling, too. It's the same high, girlish laugh that I use to try and win John over, — the cutesy persona I slip into without even trying, always in an effort to get what I want.

This fact leaves me wondering, — what exactly do I want from this? Just conversation?

Or am I waiting for some sort of validation, — for him to say something that gives him away, insinuating that he hasn't forgotten me already, that in his eyes, I'm not just something disposable?

"All jokes aside," Brian continues, breaking me from my drug-muddled reverie, "I'm glad you called. I was starting to think you might have gotten your shit together or something."

"Oh, no." A surprised, barking laugh bubbles up in my throat, much less adorable than the last. "Not even close."

"Good, 'cause I haven't either." I hear something on the other line, a sound like creaking floorboards. "Speaking of which, I guess I'll cut me a line, too. Won't do for you to get high all by your lonesome."

I smile. "And they say romance is dead."

"Well, baby, if this is your idea of romance, I'm Prince fucking Charming." I hear him shifting, probably cutting his own coke. The thought leaves me reaching to arrange another line, figuring I can go ahead and indulge a bit more.

"It doesn't take much for a couple of burnouts like us to be drug buddies, does it?" he asks, his voice low in my ear. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine him next to me, watching me like a hawk as I push a careful amount of white powder towards me.

"I think it's a pretty easy arrangement," I reply, rolling my dollar up again. "Sort of like being friends with benefits."

"Ha. Benefits. I guess that's what we are, in a way. Hold on..." A brief silence sets in, followed by an audible sniffle. "Fuck, that's good."

Just like the last time, I follow his example, leaning down and taking a quick sniff. With that, that euphoric comes rushing back full force, leaving my lips turning up into a smile. "Yeah," I say. "It really is."

"Speaking of benefits..." Brian continues. "I want you to know I haven't forgotten what you said the other night."

At these words, my already-racing heartbeat speeds up even more.

"And what's that?" I ask, hoping to sound much less anxious than I feel.

"That you don't fuck against the wall on the first date," he replies easily. "I told you we might save that for the next time."

He pauses as if he's waiting me to say something. I don't, of course, — I'm too afraid my heart might jump up through my throat, considering the way I can feel it beating.

Finally, Brian puts an end to the silence with his proposition. "Wanna go get a bite to eat sometime?"

I think about this. I picture that, — going out to a restaurant, with Brian, on an actual, official date. I imagine it, — a conversation without the benefit of chemical aid, eating a real meal for once.

It's all so average, so indicative of normalcy, — a luxury I haven't had since the time I went out with a boy from my Chemistry class during junior year.

I do want it. I want it so badly, it scares me.

That's why I have to shoot him down.

"Brian," I say quietly. "I don't... we don't know each other that well."

"Exactly," he replies. "I figured we should fix that."

" _Brian._ " I say his name more forcefully this time, unnecessarily aggressive.

"I'm sorry." I let my voice soften as I continue, putting a cap on my rejection. "I mean, I think we've got a good thing going, but... I don't date."

For a long while, he stays silent. For a while, I think I pissed him off to make him hang up.

Finally, he speaks again. "Fine. No commitments." He says this so easily, like it doesn't bother him a bit. Something about that stings. "Would you at least like to come see my band play next Friday, though? We could get high, before and after the show."

"You have a band?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah." He laughs lightly, sounding rather proud of himself. "Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids. We're playing The Squeeze at eleven."

He pauses for a while, seeming to await my input. I remain frozen, considering it. The idea of us snorting another couple of lines together in the back of some dingy club seems infinitely more plausible.

"So... are you in?"

I jump, my mind rushing back to reality.

Without a second thought, I find an answer passing my lips. "Yeah, sure."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'll hold you to that, you know. Send somebody out into the crowd to look for you."

"And they'll find me."

"Alright." He laughs his boyish laugh, making that war, feeling rise in my chest again. "See you then."

"Yeah," I manage, trying not to melt into the sofa. "I'll see you."

With that, a droning hum resonates from the other line. Once again, we've managed to forgo a goodbye.

I return the phone to its place on the wall, trying my best to ignore that warm, lingering feeling, all too much like a schoolgirl crush.

In order to kill the guilt, I promise myself that this agreement is the only vow I'll ever make to him.

His words echo in my mind: _no commitments._

If he can hold me to my single promise to him, I can hold him to that one.


End file.
